


A Good Man

by deviltakethehindmost



Category: Ripper Street
Genre: Undead, Unresolved Sexual Tension, other characters will appear later - Freeform
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-08-25
Updated: 2015-09-07
Packaged: 2018-04-17 06:02:28
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 4,436
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4655361
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/deviltakethehindmost/pseuds/deviltakethehindmost
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Fred Best is dead and buried. Then he wakes up in his coffin only hours after his funeral. For some reason Whitechapel's favourite journalist has become one of the walking dead and no one can quite fathom why.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> so i mentioned on tumblr i was going to write this so here i am.

Fred Best was very much dead, of that he was sure. He could remember being shot multiple times. In fact, he could actually remember the moment life had been so violently wrenched from his body. He could remember his eyes closing and truly believing that this would be the last thing he saw. 

So he was more than a little surprised when he woke up.

At first he had believed that this was his afterlife. It had been extremely disappointing to find that this seemed to consist of a smallish, padded wooden box. Although in retrospect he had been expecting some form of fiery pit with devils prodding him with pitchforks. Thinking about it a box probably wasn't too bad a way to spend eternity, in comparison.

As he began to come to terms with spending eternity in an almost comfortable, if somewhat claustrophobic box, it suddenly dawned on him what had happened. He was not dead. Actually he was almost the exact opposite; he was alive. Alive and trapped in his own bloody coffin. Just his luck. 

This realisation made his breath quicken slightly, panic beginning to set in. Best took a couple of deep breaths, then pushed heavily on the wooden panel in front of him. It did not budge. A sense of foreboding overcame him. His mind was filled with images of him dying once again but this time of suffocation. They were not pleasant images. 

Maybe if he banged hard enough someone on the ground above would hear. That would work perfectly, if there was even the slightest chance that someone would bother to visit his grave, which there was not. Cursing himself for being such a total bastard, he kicked the wooden panel. But this time something happened. The panel gave way slightly. It dawned on him that there was a possibility he had not been in his grave long and that there had not been time to fill in the six feet of dirt that should be above him. 

He kicked again. Nothing. Apart from a short stab of pain in his toe. 

Then again. Nothing but the possibility of a broken toe.

Once more he tried, however, the wood remained unbroken or unmoved.

Taking a deep intake of breath, he tried again, much harder this time, using all the strength his thin body could muster. It moved, he was certain of it. And so he kicked with the same force. Again and again and again and again he kicked, until he felt like his toes were all crushed beyond repair. But that was all worth it when he heard whatever had been used to fasten the lid down snap with a loud twanging noise. 

The lid slid lifted off without much encouragement from Best and he breathed a long sigh if relief. After taking a moment to get to grips with everything he sat up, to survey his surroundings. His assumptions had been right. He was lying in a coffin in an open grave. For a moment or two his relief continued until he remembered that he had not completely solved his problems. He was not an overly tall man and his grave was very deep indeed.

*

Since Susan had been arrested Homer Jackson had found that more often than not sleep was something that totally alluded him. Night after night he found himself tossing and turning, alone in his bed. He had tried finding a girl to keep him company but he knew that could never work.

So he often found himself wandering the streets of Whitechapel at ungodly hours of the morning. It was almost peaceful if he ignored the woman offering their services and men looming threateningly in shadows. Tonight his feet had taken him even further than usual, leading him to quieter streets. In fact, his feet were following a path they had trodden only hours before on the way to a funeral. 

The church had not been busy for the funeral of the journalist, Fred Best, but it had been busier than Jackson thought the man himself would have believed. People had heard of his cruel and brutal murder and were hoping for an open coffin, he supposed. But he had been there and so had Reid, Drake and any other officer they could spare. The officers had little idea why Reid had been so insistent they attended but Jackson knew him well enough to know that he wanted to do good by Best somehow. He may have been a nuisance, however, he was also a much needed ally. Best, for all his seedy journalism and his foppish way of dressing, was a good man. According to Susan he had proved this in his last moments. When she'd told him exactly what he had said, his final words, Jackson couldn't help but laugh. Best had known his death was inevitable and had made the decision to give his killer one big, final fuck you.

Sitting on the steps of the church, he laughed aloud at the thought. What he would give to have seen the expression on Swift's face! 

His train of thought was interupted by a man who loudly clattered over the fence surrounding the church grounds. The figure plummeted to the ground and for a couple of seconds lay there. Normally Jackson would have let him pass without comment or interference. It was only when a thought crossed his mind that he stood up and began to walk towards him. 

“You there!” he shouted loudly, startling the man who was just in the process of righting himself, “What have you been up to? I think I can guess!”

Finally, after what felt like minutes, he reached the man and promptly grabbed him. Then, without paying much attention to the graverobber's mucky appearance, shoved him against the fence.

“Robbing the graves of the recently buried. Well I'm not going to stand for it! A friend of mine, who died one of the bravest men I've ever known was buried today,” he exclaimed.

Before he could continue his tirade, the man moved slightly and the streetlight cast a dim glow on the startled face of Fred Best. Too shocked to say anything, he stumbled backwards and released his grip.

After a long silence, Best finally managed to speak.

“I just had to climb out of my own grave,” he said, his voice quiet and strained, “I don't understand it. I know I was dead.”

Without speaking Jackson leaned forward and grabbed Best's wrist. A few moments later he recoiled quickly and shook his head. This could not be happening. It was impossible. Seeing the panic in his eyes Best gave him a questioning look.

“You don't have a pulse.”


	2. Chapter 2

“Don't be foolish, Jackson,” Best snapped, after a long shocked silence, “Check again. There's obviously been some sort of mistake.”

By the point Jackson had managed to catch up with everything that had just happened. Checking the man's pulse seemed ridiculously foolish now, considering Best's corpse had lain on the table in his dead room. He'd wrenched the bullets from that cold dead chest. Yes, Best had definitely not been alive; there was no mistake.

“You're dead,” he said, shaking his head in disbelief.

Suddenly Best seemed to shrink in on himself, he looked so small and scared for about thirty seconds but he managed to recover before Jackson could comment. He stood there, his eyes filled with a false confidence that was fooling neither of them.

“I saw your corpse. You lay on my table. You were covered in bullet holes and splattered with blood. Most of your fingers were broken as were your ribs and-”

“My tibia was snapped. I am quite aware of this due to the fact that you are talking about my own murder,” Best replied, interrupting Jackson's unnecessary description of the brutality he had suffered. 

They stood in silence. Jackson took the opportunity to take a proper look at the recently deceased journalist. He had been dressed for the occasion by the funeral director, who had obviously searched through Best's clothing and somehow found a plain black suit. It was odd to see him so conservatively dressed. In all the years they had known each other Jackson was certain Best had never worn that suit. 

“Are you even listening to me?” Best asked, snatching him back from his thoughts.

Obviously he looked startled because Best sighed loudly and then rolled his eyes. 

“Sorry but I'm finding this whole situation a bit confusing to be honest,” Jackson replied, with a snide tone that made Best want to roll his eyes again. He managed to resist, “Come with me.”

With that he grabbed Best's arm and began to drag him down the street back towards more familiar territory. The streets were becoming a little busier now, meaning that it must be getting very close to dawn. It would be for the best if they got to their destination before it was light enough for anyone to recognise the dead man beside him.

“Let go! You'll crush my sleeve!” Best moaned and Jackson had to turn around to shoot him a disbelieving glance.

“Best, I hate to be the one to tell you but you currently look like utter shit.”

He had to work harder to keep Best moving as he slowed down to take stock of his disheveled appearance. From a pace or two in front he could hear the journalist muttering quietly to himself. It was becoming more than a minor annoyance so he yanked Best's arm suddenly, sending the man flailing towards the ground with a look of total panic in his eyes.

But he took pity on him at the last second. He caught Best a mere second before he hit the ground and then pulled him to his feet. 

“You've just risen from the fucking dead. Please have some perspective and hurry up,” he ordered as Best looked at him with a genuinely shocked expression on his face.

“But I specifically wrote it into my will that I was to be buried in the red suit with the gold embroidery.”

“Do not think that because you are technically dead I will not hit you,” Jackson seethed and he couldn't help but notice the hint of a smile that played on the other man's lips, “Just please walk.”

Best seemed to realise that even though Jackson probably would not strike him, it would not be sensible to aggravate him even further. His walk quickened considerably. Jackson let his hand loosen slighty but did not let go of Best's wrist. 

They walked quickly and in silence from then on. Meaning their progress towards their destination was fast and they soon found themselves standing at the door of the only man Jackson could think to go to. 

He knocked loudly and before long he could hear the door being unlocked. As it swung open he began to wonder if this really had been the right thing to do. It was too late now.

*

His head hurt almost constantly now. Usually it was nothing but a soft ache. However, tonight it had been a stabbing pain for hours. Sitting up all night, in a darkened room, had helped ease it though. It as almost gone by about half four when there was a loud and insistent knock at the door. 

Quickly and without even considering who it could possibly be, he opened the door and was faced with Homer Jackson. He opened his mouth the scold the doctor, his eyes focused on the man beside him. 

“Dare I even ask what the hell is going on?” he said finally, after a long, shocked silence.

“We would love to tell you, if we had even the faintest idea ourselves,” Jackson replied, as Reid continued to stare disbelievingly.

“I know I'm not looking my best, Inspector, but you must surely know that it is extremely rude to stare,” Best drawled, but his blatant avoidance of eye contact made it obvious he was not his usual confident self.

Eventually Reid seemed to snap out of it, stepping to the side to let them in. For some reason Jackson felt the need to push Best in the door before him. Reid thought it odd to see the doctor being so oddly protective of the journalist. 

When they arrived in the living room, Jackson immediately sat himself down on the nearest chair. Meanwhile Best looked around and Reid was suddenly reminded of a terrified baby deer. They had been on holiday to the country when he was young and he did not know how the deer had gotten into the house. Best was it's double right now, with his big wide eyes and skinny, unsteady limbs.

“Sit down,” Jackson said, with a small sigh. 

To Reid's surprise Best complied, perching himself on the edge of a hard wooden chair and crossing his legs. His fingers drummed on his legs, in what appeared to be a subconscious manner. Reid remained standing.

“Now tell me how you faked it,” he ordered, giving them both a glare. He had came to the conclusion that Jackson was involved somehow.

Immediately Best looked over at Jackson, who raised his eyebrows disbelievingly. 

“Look, I know this sounds bizarre but I don't think he did. You saw him lying on that slab too. He was dead, we buried him and now he's back.”

“But that's not possible,” Reid replied, beginning to wander how much the captain had been drinking over the last few hours, “You've had too much to drink and been fooled by his cunning plan.”

To his immense surprise Best did not react to this at all. In fact, it seemed as though Best was hardly taking anything in at all, which was particularly odd considering he was the reporter infamous for hearing everything. Even if it was not worth hearing.

“His skin is cold and an odd texture,” Jackson said, speaking as though Reid was trying his patience, “He's not got a pulse and I met him as he was just finished climbing out of his own grave.”

Without warning Reid marched towards Best, yanked his head up and pressed his fingers hard against his neck. Twenty seconds later he moved them to a different position. Then again. And then once again. Eventually he gave up and turned back to face Jackson.

“Although I did truly believe that Best became a changed man who died a brave yet tragic death, I am now beginning to doubt that. I did not think you would so easily fooled,” he muttered to Jackson.

“You are aware that I can hear you?” Best exclaimed, “Just before you start planning my second murder or something.”

Reid gave him a look that silenced him and turned back towards Jackson, who was looking at him with an unreadable look. He could hide his emotions too easily sometimes for Reid's liking.

“This is either the work of the Devil or a clever hoax,” he decided, “I am not the sort to blindly believe.”

Jackson pinched the bridge of his nose as Best looked between the two of them. Before Jackson could react, Reid reached into the top drawer of the sideboard and pulled out a gun. 

“Don't-”

Ignoring Jackson completely he aimed it at Best. He looked shocked for a split second, then smiled, a horrible, terrible grimace. Then he stood up and beckoned Reid to go ahead.

“If that's what you need to prove this to yourself, then just do it,” he almost shouted, “To be perfectly honest, I don't care. Can you do it, Inspector? Can you put another bullet in my body?”

As he spoke he walked towards Reid until the gun pressed hard into his chest. The lost deer was gone, replaced by something he'd never seen in Best before. It suddenly dawned on him that this furiously angry and unshakable Best was the one that had faced Swift's machine gun.

“Stop being such a damned fool,” Jackson cried, having leapt to his feet but was now standing frozen, totally unsure what to do. 

Only for a second Reid turned to look away from Best and toward Jackson. They made eye contact and the captain's eyes were pleading. It was strange for him to care so deeply about another person like this, especially one who he had once so openly disliked. Eventually Reid's curiosity at this got the better of him, he nodded to signal he was done. Then he went to lower his gun.

But before he could a hand wrapped over his, pulling the trigger, without giving him any time to react. The gunshot rang out in the silent house. Jackson turned his face away, apparently not wanting to see Best dead for the second time. Reid's eyes had closed as Best fired the gun and was yet to open them.

A minute or so later he considered opening his eyes. He could imagine the scene now: Best's glassy, still open eyes and the blood splattered along the walls. Maybe he could turn away and leave, without looking. In a few hours, once it was truly the morning, he could send Drake to clean things up. His mind began to run away with these plans.

Then he realised the hand was still over his on the gun. 

“That was actually surprisingly painful,” Best's voice rang out and seemed to echo around the room. 

*

Best waited patiently for the other men to pluck up the courage to look at them. Not speaking only added to the suspense but also gave him time to recover slightly. It was rather disappointing to find that even in death he had a relatively low pain threshold. 

Eventually Reid's eyes opened and Jackson turned back around to face him. While Reid stood staring, Jackson snapped out of his stupidity, pacing quickly over to Best. He gripped his arms tightly, it should have been painful but it was oddly reassuring, then forced him back into the seat.

“Take off your shirt,” he ordered and Best cursed as he could feel his cheeks redden. Jackson noticed and grinned, “Don't worry, sweetheart, I wouldn't proposition you. Well, not with Reid here anyway.”

Jackson winked, making Best's blush worsen. He hated himself for that. As he realised Best was not about to move Jackson made the decision to do it for him; he leaned forward, pushed his suit jacket out of the way and made quick work of his waistcoat. Then he also made even quicker work of his shirt buttons.

“The bullet has gone into you, actually it's still there,” he explained, “But you're not bleeding at all. I can extract it from you once we get back to either my place or the dead room.”

“How is this possible?” Reid asked, “Have you ever heard of anything like this before?”

“No,” Jackson replied, shaking hie head, “I've never seen someone rise from the dead before. If I had, do you not think I might have mentioned it?”

Reid shrugged as if to agree and the two men turned back around to face Best, who squirmed uncomfortably under their gazes.

“So what are we going to do with you then, Best?” Jackson asked.

“Honestly, boys, I'm not that bothered as long as you take me to my home so I can change out of these dreadful clothes first,” Best replied and the other two burst out laughing.


	3. Chapter 3

The pain is terrible. None of the medication to numb the pain has worked. They only knew that because Jackson has pointed out that he has now taken enough to kill a medium sized horse. He's lying on the examination bench with his hands clenching around the edges. 

“Stop squirming,” Jackson ordered, glancing up at him, “You're behaving like a child and I've not even started yet.”

“Sorry but I'm not exactly looking forward to you ripping a bullet from my abdomen,” he snapped and moved away when Jackson moved closer with what looked like long silver pliers. 

Without another word Jackson made another attempt at approaching him and Best really did try to keep still. It didn't work. He didn't look down, however, he could practically feel the doctor rolling his eyes. The man seemed to think that this whole thing wasn't that big a deal. In comparison to everything that had just happened, he supposed he was probably right.

“That's it,” Jackson said, suddenly, he placed his hand on Best's chest. He used all his strength to make sure Best remained still. 

Jackson was strong, much stronger than Best, at least. His hand was enough to hold him firmly in place. A sudden wave of nausea hit him as he felt the pliers slip into the bullet hole. All he could do was keep him mouth firmly closed and pray that this would be over quickly. However, Jackson was apparently struggling to grasp the bullet for he was leaning in even closer and the pliers were being moved about inside him. He couldn't hold it in much longer.

“I'm going to be sick,” he muttered, quietly, causing the captain to look up so sharply he almost yanked the pliers out with him.

“What?” he asked.

“I said: I'm going to be sick,” he repeated, trying his best to avoid opening his mouth any more than completely necessary.

“How on earth can a dead man vomit?” Jackson frowned, continuing to move those pliers that Best was loathing more and more by the second. 

There was no chance for Best to reply as his stomach made the decision to evacuate into his throat and then promptly onto Jackson's shoes and the surrounding floor area. This was followed by Jackson shouting a number of imaginative and extremely expletive curse words. He jumped up, then left the room, leaving Best alone.

This was the first time he'd been alone since Jackson had bumped into him falling over the wall of the graveyard. The silence was almost comforting after listening to Jackson and Reid talk almost constantly. It gave him time to think. Actually it was probably too much time. But before he could get to lost in his own terrible melancholy, Jackson burst back into the room, brandishing a bucket of water, which he promptly splashed all over the floor.

“I am genuinely sorry,” Best began his apology but Best held up his hand, motioning for him to stop.

“Don't worry,” he replied, “You tried to warn me. I should have listened. In fact, I'll try to listen to you more often from now on.”

“Is that a promise?” Best asked, a laugh edging into his voice. 

“Look, I'll try my best but I am not a man who is used to listening,” Jackson grinned in a self depreciating manner.

“I would never have guessed,” Best said, in a tone laced with sarcastic mocking. 

They both laughed for a minute or two and held eye contact. He had never known Jackson to be so kind, especially to him. These past hours had been filled with countless surprises. 

“Now let's get this hole stitched up!” Jackson exclaimed, as Best noticed the bullet had been removed and was lying on the table beside him. 

Best groaned loudly, considering the best way of escaping. 

*

It's strange having someone in his rooms. Of course, Mimi had often been here but that was in totally different circumstances. Best should have stayed at Reid's, he had the extra space. Something had told him neither of them would have been overjoyed about that arrangement. So he'd quickly volunteered to put Best up until something else could be worked out.

Now the undead man was perched on the edge of a chair, reading his own obituary while frowning quite heavily. Every so often he would sigh, shake his head and then go back to reading.

“Not liking what they had to say about you?” he enquired, causing Best to jump. 

He threw down the paper and looked up.

“They hated me,” he replied, “Was I honestly that much of a total bastard?”

There were two ways to answer that question: honestly or nicely. Jackson had never been one for niceties. 

“A bit,” he grimaced as he spoke, “I mean, towards the end I thought you'd redeemed yourself but I suppose not many other people saw that.”

“Even my own paper couldn't write a properly nice word about me! I bloody well died for the sake of a story,” Best exclaimed, throwing his arms up for emphasis. 

“But it wasn't just solely for the story, was it?” Jackson asked and watched as Best froze in his fidgeting, stopping to stare directly at him, “It was all for that man that died in your arms.”

He had been expecting some sort of smart response from the man but he was disconcerted to find he just continued staring at him. There was a strange look in his eyes: it was as though he couldn't quite decide what emotion he was meant to be feeling. 

“What of him?” he said, eventually after a long silence.

“You loved him,” Jackson was sure he had mean to ask a question but it had came out as a statement.

At this Best settled on an emotion: anger. His face screwed up and his eyes hardened. He looked as though he was considering actual physical violence. 

“Calm down. I didn't mean anything bad-”

“Why must everyone speak like it is my defining characteristic?” Best spoke quietly but the anger was still evident, “Whenever someone discovered my impurities, shall we say, they suddenly seem to believe they know me well enough to judge me. So what if I died for a man I loved? It is no different from you dying for Miss Susan or the Sergeant dying for Rose!”

Jackson stepped towards him, before realising that was not a particular sensible idea, as Best was looking as though the rage was growing within him more and more by the second. During the course of his tirade, he had stood up and now they stood head to head.

“I did not say it was,” he replied, in a tone designed to calm. 

“For all your confidence and try anything once attitude, I bet you're just as bad as the rest of them,” Best finished his speech and looked at Jackson.

When Jackson couldn't manage to formulate a reply, Best shook his head and grimaced. He sat back down and picked up the paper without another word. 

And that was when Jackson remembered just how much he loathed people giving him the silent treatment.


End file.
